Dear Erykah Badu,
You know how to own a stage. Thank you for being a goddess of funk and neosoul and blonde mohawks and motherhood and hiphop and retro-styled dresses.
We were hot, sweaty, sunburned, muddy, no-shirted, short-skirted, plaid-wearing, beer-drinking, music-listening family, weren’t we? Next year, I think you should leave your kids at home. I think you should take your kicked-in-the-head friend to the medic tent, instead of offering her beer. I think you should wear deodorant. But I can tell you these things, because we’ve been there. We’ve shared the experience. We’re pretty much best friends now.
Dear Chris Cornell,
Thanks for looking all sweaty and dirty. Also, for playing music that made the crowd raise their fists and sweat and bounce and bang their heads.
Thanks for providing a little collective effervescence. A little nachtmusik. A little Soundgarden. Until next year.